


19 Hours

by PlotWitch



Category: Anita Blake: Vampire Hunter - Laurell K. Hamilton
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-12
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-15 16:10:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13616922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlotWitch/pseuds/PlotWitch
Summary: Say you get a call one day, and you discover that the person you trust the most in the entire world has nineteen hours to live. Not because they’re ill, not because of fate. But because they did something good, something right. What would you do, to try and save their life? What wouldn’t you do?





	1. 19 Hours

Nineteen hours ago the call came.

“Anita, I need your help. Please.” It was the please that did it, that drove her, that echoed in her mind. _Please._ That was what she told herself the entire drive to the Circus of the Damned. That was what she told herself as she ignored the weapons in the back of her Jeep, as she felt the burning of the slip of paper in her pocket.

It was the lock to him, she thought, and the please was the key. The please that had her saying, “Tell me what to do.” The please that had gained her entry into what was probably the only sanctuary and refuge Edward had on the planet.

But the fear that had her ready to kill was grounded in the gunshots, the pained cry, and the sudden silence that had followed as she took her instructions from him by phone. The fear that whatever she was about to do, whatever she managed to gain, it would already be too late. Because there was always the chance that he was already dead.

“Please,” she whispered, as she whipped into the parking lot of the Circus and slammed the gear into park. She was out, not even bothering to lock the doors, not even making an effort to hide the blades and firearms she wore, silver gleaming at her wrists and calves, and gleaming black guns in her shoulder holster, at an ankle and the small of her back.

“Please don’t let him be dead,” she barely breathed as she pushed through the door of the Circus.

She was stopped, or very nearly. It was a new vampire, and one she doubted she would see again after he made the mistake of grabbing her arm and trying to force her to stop, show her weapons, her identification, state her business and why was she coming there armed? He was a baby, and the bullet she put through his throat was one of Edward’s specials.

She doubted he would rise again.

There were screams, a few of them. But mostly there were ooh’s and aah’s as the crowd believed it to be a macabre show for their benefit. Anita bit back the urge to fire random shots into the crowd. There was no reason to take out her anger on anyone but the person who deserved it, and if she had her way, they would suffer. They would _suffer_ , especially if he was dead.

She left the Browning naked in her hand, and the crowd seemed to part before her. She made her way unerring to the door that led to the bowels of the Circus, and didn’t bother knocking, didn’t bother trying the handle. Didn’t bother waiting because there was no time to spare.

She kicked, hard and violent into the wood of the door. It thudded against her foot, but then seemed to fall back crookedly as the wood at the hinges cracked and split. Another well placed kick and it was completely off the hinges and being held only by the metal cylinder that was the dead bolt. Its weight was too much, and the metal bent and shrieked as it slid from its casing, dragged by the heavy oaken door.

There were complaints, some nearly violent as she stepped over the door and raced down the stairs. None made it further than a look at her before they were plastering themselves to the walls of the stairwell and praying that she wouldn’t touch them. The violence on her face was enough to ensure their swift obedience out of fear, and Anita filed that away.

“ _Ma petite,_ ” Jean-Claude said with one dark eyebrow carefully arched, an expression he had no doubt practiced for centuries. Richard was less suave, and perhaps more intelligent, saying nothing.

She hadn’t expected to find them both, not in the first go, but it suited her perfectly, giving her more time to gather information and to find him. “I need help. Edward is in trouble.”

Her words, perfectly reasonable in the cool stone room, were met with a less than reasonable response. “ _Messier la Morte_ is surely able to care for himself. I’ll risk none of my people for him,” Jean-Claude said easily, infuriatingly.

Richard lost his intelligence and laughed. “You’re kidding, right?”

Her jaw clenched, and Anita closed her eyes against the sudden wash of red that covered her vision. “Do I look like I’m kidding, Richard?” she asked, hoping that he would see the desperation on her face, smell the fear that she knew must be radiating off of her like perfume.

“No, Anita,” he said evenly, authoritatively. He could see it now, the seriousness that she wore like a cloak. She meant it, was honestly asking for help in saving the one person that Richard might actually fear. The one _human_ , he thought derisively.

Her eyes narrowed, and the air seemed to still for a moment. Jean-Claude and Richard both tensed slightly, one becoming a statue of living death, the other a vibrating well of power. Anita thought for a moment, considered, and made her decision. In the space of two heartbeats, she decided that she was willing to break the bonds of love and friendship she wore with the men that stood before her.

And as she made the decision, there was no regret. Better to have the one who trusted, who was trusted, unto the death, than the ones that squabbled like children because she refused to marry their precious marks, and she reached out to both of them with tendrils of raging power.

“I’ll have your help,” she said quietly, and smiled as annoyance and anger passed across their faces. “Whether you want to give it or not.” With that she extended a hand, curling the fingers in on themselves, and watched as their bodies stiffened with the power she had wrapped around them like shrouds around a corpse. And one was, she realized with a wickedly delighted smile.

She flicked a finger and Jean-Claude and watched as he stepped forward, toward her, and the fear raced through his eyes. “You forget, don’t you both,” she said, “that the reason you were so eager to be bound to me is my power.” She wiggled the finger, swayed it down to the ground, and Jean-Claude knelt. “You’ll be my puppet forever, and no one will ever be the wiser.”

There was movement from the corner of her eye, and she slid the Browning into its holster so that she could direct the power that was wrapped around Richard where he twitched against it. With a wave of her hand, a deep breath, he was dropping to the floor like a stone, the skin of his face taught and sunken, his hands curled in like claws.

“I don’t even need to touch you,” she hissed, “to drain your power and strength. You’ve given yourselves over to me willingly.”

She loosed the power for a moment, giving Jean-Claude a chance to scuttle back from her, Richard the chance to breathe raggedly as he crawled away. “I want your help,” she said slowly, spacing each word as if speaking to an especially dense person. And maybe she was, she realized with a grin. Two of the most dense people she knew, to think they could make the decisions, decide when to toss their lot in or out.

And to think she would do everything for them with nothing in return.

“I will have it,” she ordered, and didn’t even wait to see if they would submit, only laid out her demands in short succinct sentences.

“I want to know who Van Cleef is, and I want to know where Van Cleef is. And I want to know before sunrise.”

She didn’t even smile as they hurried to seek the answers to her questions. Only hoped that the few hours between now and dawn wouldn’t find Edward dead or dying.


	2. 15 Hours

She waited until almost dawn before she started using the power to pinch and dig at them, to undermine their defenses. To let them know that she was getting impatient. To let them know that she wanted her answers, and she wanted them now, or there would be hell to pay. Worse, she thought. Worse, if he was dead before she reached him.

She amended the thought. Worse if their delays in information gathering cost him his life.

But the delays were worth it, she realized as they finally returned and laid out extensive plans in front of her. Not photos, but grainy surveillance photography from the airport. Van Cleef had been here, in St. Louis, and not even a month prior. It made her wonder, but she only stared into the black and white picture, trying to memorize the shape of the face, the cut of the hair.

The salient points in identifying the woman face to face.

Van Cleef didn’t look her age. Not even close. She _looked_ to be in her late forties, maybe early fifties. She was well preserved. She was, in reality, sixty-four years old. She wasn’t a wife, she wasn’t a mother. She was a murderer, a killer for hire. A sociopath like even Edward wasn’t.

Anita bit back a snort. Edward was a very good assassin, one of the best, and his moral sensibilities were sorely lacking. But even she knew that he had changed his M.O. in the last few years, since he had met her. Maybe once upon a time he killed indiscriminately. But not anymore. As far as Anita could tell, whenever Edward was killing things now they were things that deserved to be killed for better reasons that money.

It was one of the things that she liked so much about him.

But this Van Cleef, was frightening. There was no conscience whatsoever that Anita could see. Every report that she read, some classified, some police, most related to the youth of the woman, made her skin grow more chilled, the hairs on the back of her neck become more rigid as she realized exactly what had Edward.

A ruthless killer who killed, not just for the enjoyment, but for the sake of killing itself.

And Anita had no illusions that Edward would not suffer before he met his death, unless he’d managed to die when they were taking him. But for some reason, she wasn’t banking on that. No, Edward wanted to live. He wouldn’t have called Anita otherwise, wouldn’t have opened his past up to her if he was planning on just giving in and dying.

No, Edward was planning on living. And he had asked the one person he trusted to save him.

But, she thought, there wasn’t a great deal she could do from where she was currently sitting. No, she needed plane tickets, she needed transportation, and she needed no questions from anyone who could take her weapons away from her. Or the weapons she was going to be retrieving from Edward’s private arsenal. Especially not those weapons, because if she knew Edward, there would be fun things like explosives.

She thought quietly in the back of her mind while she went through the stacks of information that Jean-Claude and Richard had found for her. Knowing them, Jean-Claude had probably traded a lot of favors and money for them, and Richard had followed on his coat tails. She’d give Jean-Claude that much.

Jean-Claude knew how to make things happen.

Richard, however, didn’t. Hell, he’d nearly been prodded to death to take steps to save the pack from Marcus. And he hadn’t dealt with Raina at all. It amazed her sometimes that someone who was Ulfric, alpha and dominant came across as a creature so completely helpless and hopeless.

She glanced up at Richard, and saw him look away. Good. He’d been sneaking in at her thoughts, and he knew what she thought of him. “If you’re ashamed, why don’t you do something about it?” she asked as she turned a page. “Be a man, be Ulfric, instead of depending on everyone else to keep you there.”

“It’s not that easy, Anita,” he said softly into the rustling papers.

“Hmm,” was all she said for a long time.

There were plans now. Plans and blueprints and notes taken about very sophisticated security systems. Which she had no way past. Her thoughts turned once again to the pleasant prospects of explosives and she shrugged to herself. If she was going in there was no point in trying for stealth if it wasn’t really an option. Maybe Edward could have managed it, but Anita couldn’t even pick a lock, much less bypass a powerful system.

Hell, she barely knew how to turn her computer on.

She flipped to another page, trying to think of where she would put someone if she were Van Cleef. If she were planning on keeping someone alive for a bit, not necessarily in one piece, before executing them. Somewhere without a ton of access. Which meant the corridors of dozens of small rooms and doors were out. No, those were probably barracks halls.

She’d pick one without a lot of doors, without a lot of places to hide if one miraculously escaped. And there were two corridors that fit the bill. One was on the ground level of the installment. The other was twenty feet below earth and concrete. And that was where she’d have stashed Edward. Where his screams would never be heard, no matter what she’d done to him.

She closed her eyes and tried not to rip the paper as her hands clenched to fists. It was difficult to think of what a person like that would do to someone if they were truly displeased. Especially one that Van Cleef had trained personally. And there was evidence of that. In the stacks of papers were a handful of photographs, all old and faded, none with clear images of Van Cleef.

But several had clear images of Edward. A younger, more innocent, more helpless Edward. And Van Cleef, if one knew what to look for. It turned her stomach to think of it, and she shoved her chair back from the table where all of the information was spread out. It was pointless to think of it. No, she was done thinking. She had a plan, a course of action.

As long as Edward’s arsenal met with expectations. And Anita had no doubts that it would exceed them.

She turned to Richard, brown eyes blazing with anger. “It is that easy,” she said harshly, as if she hadn’t spent nearly half an hour in silence, picking up that particular thread exactly where she had left it dangling in her mind.

“Anita,” Richard started, and she cut him off abruptly with a slashing motion of her hand, and a tiny slice of power that had him cringing back.

“It _is_ that easy. You think I haven’t had to do things I don’t want to do? Cross lines I never meant to cross, no matter what?” She laughed at him. “Even now I’m crossing another one. But at least this time it’s for someone who deserves my loyalty. Like you never did.”

She glanced over at Jean-Claude. “ _You_ used me,” she said with an accusing finger. Then back to Richard, clenching her hands back into tight fists that made her knuckles ache. “And you were even worse, content to let both of us take care of things for you up until you had to do it yourself. Coward. At least Jean-Claude was up front about the things he did.”

She turned to Jean-Claude, trying to force a more pleasant expression on her face. “I’d like to use the jet.”

Jean-Claude raised an eyebrow, arching it in an expression he had practiced for more than four centuries until it had been perfected. “You are asking, _ma petite_?”

“Requesting,” she replied. “I’ll need two stops. One in Raleigh, the other to Denver, unless you can manage clearance to Colorado Springs.”

“Ah, which first?” was all he asked.

“Raleigh. And I’ll need them both to be small, _private_ airports.” Jean-Claude gazed at her inquiringly. “I’m raiding one of Edward’s arsenals. I’ll need to be able to get the supplies around to where I need them. If you could arrange someone to go with me, I’d appreciate it.”

“There’s a new member of the pack,” Richard put in. “He’s expendable. Take him.”

Anita looked at him with disgust. “You’re really pathetic, Richard.”

He shrugged. “You’re dangerous. I should volunteer one of my stronger members?”

“I don’t recall asking you to supply someone,” Anita said dryly.

“And a vampire is going to have someone who can follow you around during daytime?”

She frowned. He had a point. But still. “You don’t just volunteer someone because they’re ‘expendable,’ as you put it. Ask for volunteers, or assign someone you trust to keep themselves alive. Not send someone off and assume they’ll end up dead.”

Richard frowned back at her. “Fine. Take Jason.”

Jean-Claude cleared his throat. “Richard, Jason is my responsibility.”

“Not anymore,” Richard shot at him. “She won’t let him get killed, will she?” Jean-Claude didn’t answer and Richard took it as assent. “Not if she can help it. And he has enough experience to know when to stay out of the way. She’ll take Jason.”

Anita sighed, curled magic at them, and smiled as they shut up with twin gasps of pain. “I changed my mind. I don’t anyone  but the pilot. Clear?”

She didn’t wait for a response, just began collecting up all of the data and shoving it into the folder it had been delivered in. when she was done she headed for the stairs and the sun, that was shortly coming up. “I’ll be at the airport in half an hour. Have the plane fueled by then.”

Nobody complained that her request had turned into a command.


	3. 13 Hours

It was dark when he woke. His hands were cuffed behind him, and there was a chain shackling him to the wall. Edward shifted from his side, forcing himself upright and ignoring the stabbing pain that went through his head and side. He knew he’d taken a hit to his head, that explained the headache, the blood that dripped down the side of his face and made a little pool where he’d been lying.

They must have roughed him up more after he was unconscious. The throbbing ache in his side said ribs, cracked, fractured, or even broken. Somehow, he was thinking they weren’t broken. A broken rib could have killed him, sent bone straight through a major organ: heart, lung, liver. Any one of which would be a killing blow, and Van Cleef wanted him alive.

If only so that she could kill him herself.

There were footsteps outside the room, and he knew he’d been drugged then. The footsteps were swift and sure, like someone who _knew_ that he’d be awake, not just checking to see. A slash of light, and then a booted foot connected with his jaw, flipping him back to his side and making him groan as he spat blood on the concrete floor.

“So good to see you again, Undertaker. Or would it be _Edward_ now?” came a cool female voice, and he blinked up several times before his vision cleared.

He coughed and winced at the sharp pain in his side. “I never liked that stupid name, Van Cleef,” he said as he levered himself back up to his knees, blue eyes meeting her cold brown ones in an icy hot rage. “It’s Edward. Always has been, always will be, even after you’re dead and gone.”

It was a stupid thing, and prideful, and he knew it as he said it. Taunting the woman who had trained him, who had trained hundreds, maybe thousands of killers, was not a smart course of action. And he did it anyway.

Van Cleef’s eyes narrowed, and one hand snapped out to tangle its fingers in Edward’s hair, yanking his head back so that his throat was taught with the strain. He felt a blade laid against it and struggled not to swallow, knowing that if he did it would draw blood. Maybe not enough to kill, but he couldn’t afford to lose more blood than necessary.

Then again, maybe it didn’t matter, he thought as the blade bit into his skin and a stinging sheet of blood began to flow from the line across his throat. Van Cleef smiled, and Edward closed his eyes.

“Do you know why you’re here?” she asked casually, as she played the tip of the knife down across his throat and let it make bloody patterns, leaving parted skin wherever it went, blood soaking into Edward’s shirt and turning it from blue to black.

“Because you’re psychotic,” was the answer.

The blade sank into his shoulder, up to the hilt, and he fought down the scream that came tearing up his throat. He managed, just, and the only sound he made was a faint whimpering groan as waves of black rushed at him. He slipped down onto his haunches, unable to keep himself steadily on his knees as the blade was torn back out. Torn, with gushes of blood and dangling bits of skin. This time, he couldn’t fight the scream, and barely managed to keep from falling over as another kick was leveled at him, squarely in the cracked or fractured ribs.

He wasn’t so sure that they weren’t broken now.

“You’re here because I wish it,” Van Cleef said as he blinked up at her. “You’re here because you turned your back on me, and the organization.”

“I’m here,” he said clearly, sounding very nearly as if he weren’t in any pain, “because I don’t blindly obey you anymore.”

Van Cleef smiled coldly. “You’re here because you never blindly obeyed me. I told you four years ago to stay away from Anita Blake, didn’t I?”

Edward didn’t answer.

“I warned you then that your continued association with her would put you in danger. I warned you then that people like us,” and she smirked at the sudden hot flare in his cold eyes, “Yes, people like _us_ , Undertaker. People like us do not have friends, lives. We have cover. There are no obligations beyond the job, and survival.”

Edward carefully schooled his face into a mask of impassive blankness. In this, there could be no faltering step. Van Cleef had made her judgment about Anita, and not inaccurately, and had already passed the death sentence for him. And for now, it was simply because he had gotten close to someone Van Cleef herself hadn’t vetted. Or rather, she had vetted Anita, and understood very quickly that Anita was one of the rare good people in the world, who could no sooner kill for money than harm an innocent.

It would be safer that way. Because if Van Cleef knew the truth, she’d have Anita killed, too. Most likely in front of him, after forcing him to witness her being tortured, raped. If Van Cleef knew the truth, she would have a novel way of breaking him, and he would not let that happen, for either reason.

Better that she never know how much he cared about Anita Blake.

“You’re here, _Edward_ ,” and she hissed out his name like an epithet, “Because you have changed sides.”

He snorted, then laughed, then groaned as he realized that laughter was not the best course of action under any circumstance right now. It made his ribs ache like fire, and it pissed Van Cleef off. “I’m here, _Vala_ , because I did the right thing. For once in my life, I did the right thing.”

She stared at him coldly, and he could see the fury, the righteous wrath writ across her face. He almost regretted the words, but they were already out, and there was no way he could take them back. Instead, he pressed on, hoping that she didn’t move up the schedule, hoping that he would not be killed where he kneeled in this cold concrete prison.

Hoping that Anita could find him, would find him, would save him. Could save him.

“I’m here as a lesson. An example. _Disobey the almighty Van Cleef and she’ll have you killed._ Such a valuable learning tool, death.”

“You never complained before,” she said with a raised brow.

“No one would ever have dared. But I am on the other end now,” Edward said quietly. “I have nothing left to lose,” and his heart gave a painful thump as he prayed Anita wouldn’t pay for the things he said now.

“Merely your life,” Van Cleef responded as she ran an almost tender finger down his face. She leaned very close, her breath hot on his skin, tickling at the shell of his ear. “You’re wrong about one thing, Edward. You still have something left to lose.”

Edward jerked back, eyes more wide than he wanted, and unable to hide the sudden fear. He was lucky, and he knew it, that Van Cleef hadn’t figured it out. But she wasn’t stupid, and he would need to be more careful. Otherwise Anita would be dead alongside him.

“You still have your mind,” Van Cleef said with a wicked, wicked smile.

She was right, Edward realized some time later. He did still have his mind. But for how much longer he wasn’t sure. At least there were only so many pains she could inflict on him before he stopped feeling each individual blow, cut, burn, anything. He closed his eyes and prayed.


	4. 12 Hours

If she’d been poetic she would have said her fingers trembled with anticipation as she spun the dial of the combination lock outside of the rented storage nit Edward had directed her to. But she wasn’t, and her fingers were firm and steady as she carefully twisted, paused, turned back the other way, and then gave a final spin again and yanked. The lock opened and she slipped it out of the metal grooves it sat in, hooking it to her belt loop and then shoving the door open.

It swung inward, and she glanced around not knowing what to expect. Dust, perhaps, but nothing looked very dusty. Disorder, but everything was neatly in boxes, all carefully labeled in even letters that she expected were Edward’s own. She reached out to the nearest stack of boxes letting her fingers trace over the faint grooves where the marker had been, trying not to think of Edward or wonder whether or not he was alive.

Instead she began looking at the labels, not touching, just looking, and she realized that there was a great deal she didn’t know about Edward. Especially since everything seemed to be labeled in codes she didn’t understand. There were small boxes that said _M-16, (4)_ , longer boxes that were labeled _AT-4_ , and dozens of boxes that had more mundane things she recognized.

It didn’t take her long to figure it out. The dozens of boxes explained it. Most read _9MM, (40)_ , some read the same but with notations after it, and as she snagged a few of each she realized it was listed in order of type of ammunition, the number of boxes, and the special notations differed as she opened the boxes and realized that some were Edward’s specials, and some were hollow points that had a star pattern filed into the tips.

She smiled as she ran a finger across the smooth filings, knowing that they were designed to explode on impact, and make shrapnel spread far and wide and destroy anything in the area. A head or body shot would be fatal, and anything to the extremities would be disfiguring at the least, and still possibly fatal if a piece of shrapnel hit the blood stream and made it to the heart. Of course the victim could always bleed out, she mused as she carefully put the bullet back into its box and laid the box with the other 39.

She snagged another box with an unfamiliar nomenclature and snapped the tape on it, lifted the lid and saw more boxes. She opened one and thought she recognized the deadly looking rounds inside. Long, pointed, and if she was correct, military issue. She furrowed her brow and grabbed another box, with yet another label.

Short, thick stumpy bullets. Some more of the deadly looking ones that were painted at the tip white, with a special note on each individual box that proclaimed _White Phosphorous_ in tall red letters. Pebbled ovals with pins that she knew very well were grenades in a drab green. More in a bright white, that had the same white phosphorous label.

She finally opened one of the M-16 boxes and recoiled as she realized that this time it wasn’t just grenades. She carefully examined the four boxes inside, pulling one out and carefully looking inside to see 16 blocks of C-4. C-4 and detonators, she thought as she didn’t touch anything, and wire that she imagined would hook the two together. And, she laughed at this, and then wondered again, a military issued pamphlet that read as an instruction manual.

Hurriedly but carefully she replaced the C-4 and yanked one of the carefully stored AT-4 boxes open, and her jaw dropped as she realized that this wasn’t C-4, but a rocket launcher. And there were a dozen of those boxes, at least. She replaced the lid and found something new to open, and could only shake her head as she realized that the box was full of mines. Claymore mines, she read on one of them, and she was still shaking her head as she put it back and put the lid back on the box.

She began to wonder if she really wanted to open any more boxes that she didn’t recognize when she noticed some carefully stacked boxes against the wall behind a metal cabinet. These, she realized, were easy to identify. They were labeled by caliber and brand. Smith & Wesson, Beretta, Browning, Mossberg, ranging from handguns to shotguns, .22’s to .10 mm’s, 12 gages to high powered bolt action rifles.

She opened the metal cabinet, relieved it required no key and noted smaller boxes now, labeled as sights and scopes, night vision goggles, larger boxes at the bottom labeled as body armor, and two inconspicuous looking ones in the middle that read with various titles. _DD-214, AR-803, AR-002, MED-914._

She ran a finger over one of the boxes, and then pulled it out and opened it. There were several folders inside, and each was labeled with Edward Jackson, 241-56-4628. Eyes wide she yanked one out, and opened it to realize that it was full of medical records. From shots to broken bones. The other three were similar, and she carefully slid them back into the box as her hands shook.

Without hesitation she pulled the second box down and opened it, lifting out the topmost folder and flipped it open, only to find enlistment papers for one Edward Jackson, and filled with anything she had wanted to know about Edward. Her Edward, she realized, who was once a captain in the military. The army, she realized as she read further, and shook her head.

Too weird. Very too weird, and she shoved the box away without reading anything more. It explained the stockpiled military weapons, the military designations, as she now realized they were. The training he had to have had, that had given him discipline, refined upon the raw talent he had to have had. And then she laughed at the absurdity of it all.

Captain Edward. She laughed until it hurt. It was beyond weird, and she shook her head and stood, looking around at everything. Oh, he would have some explaining to do.

Quickly she began deciding what she would take. Guns, ammunition, the C-4. grenades, she thought, and she’d have to see if there were any boxes she had missed, because if Edward had military connections, she might be able to find smoke bombs and not actually have to kill people and risk being killed. She might just be able to get away with sneaking in under the smoke, and taking Edward right back out.

In the end she thought she might have been excessive with what she was taking. She had three very large, very rolling suitcases filled to the brim and manhandled into the back of her rented van. It was, she thought, a good thing she had gotten the van. The supplies might not have fit into a minivan, and there was no way she could ever have gotten it all into a car.

One suitcase was devoted to the hardware she wanted. Two Mossberg pump action pistol grip shotguns, several .9 mm’s, and .38’s. She’d even grabbed one of the .10 mm’s, a Desert Eagle, and shoved it in thinking that she might need the heavier action is gave. She’d tossed in a .22, too, a very small one, nearly as small as her beloved Seacamps, that would hide very well inside an ankle holster. The rest of the room in that was taken up by body armor. None of it had been small enough to truly fit her, but she had taken the smallest of what she could find, and hoped that duct tape would make it fit better. She thought it safer to try and make it fit than to leave it and not try at all.

The second suitcase was filled with ammunition. Thousands of rounds and dozens of empty clips that she would carefully fill and secrete across her body when she finally went after Edward. It was the heaviest, and she tried not to think of the amount of destruction she carried in that case alone, only thinking that it was a relief to be able to use normal rounds. There were none of Edward’s specials, and her fears of a gun jamming were slim. She had picked up a few boxes of the hollow points at first, and then decided to ump and equal amount of them in. but she had no fear of those backfiring. They were professionally done, and there was no wax that might jam the action.

The last case was carefully packed, and it frightened her as she lifted it into the van carefully, bracing it all around with the other two cases, and trying no to think of the possibilities if that case came into the wrong hands before she dealt with everything. It had grenades, which were carefully packaged in the first place, and a handful of smoke canisters. Not regular smoke, she recalled with a sigh. CS, a terrible, nasty and choking pepper gas that might or might not come in handy.

But it was the last bit that made her truly nervous. She had packed in two of the M-16 packages, which gave her 32 pounds of C-4. Enough to take out the Circus, she knew, if she was careful where she placed her charges. She had read the directions already and knew exactly how to use it, and what each block was capable of. And what she intended to do with it.

She’d lay every single charge and blow Van Cleef and her fucking installation to kingdom come. She’d blow it up, and make sure there was no chance of any of them coming back, especially Van Cleef, if she had to salt the ground herself.

With that in mind she headed for the nearest grocery, intent on picking up pounds of salt before heading back to her private jet.


	5. 8 Hours

He was alone again, he realized as he swam up through the darkness and toward the pain. He was alone, an still in darkness, but perfectly conscious and coherent past the pain. And there was a great deal of that, he realized as he started to shift his body and was greeted with hundreds of sharp stabbing aches.

He vaguely remembered Van Cleef spending her time alternating between using the knife and using her fists, but either way it was still effective. There had been, he recalled, several booted kicks, and he was positive she was wearing steel toed boots after so many. He was sure that he had at least two broken ribs, possibly more, and an indeterminate number that were cracked or fractured. Maybe he even had some that were only bruised, but he wasn’t counting on that.

Each breath made him wince, and he nearly screamed as he started to tense his shoulders and there was a grating drag at one wrist. He fell back, not trying to stand anymore, and blinked against the spots that dotted his vision in a blistering white. His wrist was broken. His good wrist was broken. The thought of that made him want to grope even more for a gun he knew wasn’t there.

And even if it had been, his dominant hand was still useless.

Even if useless he could still do something with it. He gritted his teeth, clenched his jaw, and took a deep agonized breath as he yanked the broken bones through the cuffs that held his hands together.

 

This time when he woke he was lying almost comfortably on his side, hands freed. Sort of. The broken one dragged and in the darkness he thought he might have felt blood seeping beyond the cuts and abrasions he’d rubbed there when he’d first tried to escape the cuffs by dislocating a thumb. He hadn’t managed to do it; he hadn’t been able to manage the leverage to fully pop the joint out of the socket.

He hoped there wasn’t bone sticking out through his skin, but he didn’t dare feel to find out. Instead he cradled the broken appendage to his stomach, shifting slowly and carefully to his knees, and hunching over to try and take the strain off of his ribs in an attempt to make them hurt a little less.

It was a mistake, he realized, to move like that. He’d been right about broken ribs, because he could feel the disjointed and jagged ends poking at important organs inside him. He straightened slowly, and sat back on his heels as he tried to figure out what to do. He didn’t dare speak, not even to himself; he was sure there were recording devices. Audio as well as visual, and night vision as a matter of course.

But, he hoped as, after a time, the steady stride of Van Cleef could be heard, maybe they had assumed he was well clear of them by the cuffs. After all, who would be insane enough to force a broken wrist through metal cuffs in the most painful way free?

He would, he decided as he struggled to his feet and steadied himself against the wall by the door.

The door opened suddenly, swinging swiftly inward, and before the lights came on he was swinging out with his good arm, his left arm, in a backhanded blow that he hoped would take Van Cleef off of her feet enough for him to get in a few brutal kicks. The kicks he intended to aim first at her head, then body, hopefully to kill her and, if not, to incapacitate her.

It could have worked, would have worked, if it hadn’t been expected and anticipated.

Edward fell to the ground, writhing and unable to release the screams that built and died in his throat as the electrical current shuddered through his body, only to leave him lying there panting and nearly unconscious. Van Cleef stood over, itching to do it again and brutally controlling herself lest she kill him before she had decided when he would die.

There were still eight more glorious hours until his execution was to be carried out, so the iron control was shoved to the front and she satisfied herself with a hard nudge at his stomach, her booted toes sliding under his body and flipping him over so that he was lying on his back, glazing eyes staring up at her but not really focusing on her.

“Foolish, foolish little man,” she said pleasantly as Edward tried to find his mind inside his pain wracked body. “I was the one who taught you to employ night vision surveillance.”

Edward coughed faintly, and then shuddered again before curling to his left side and pushing himself up to all fours, then his knees as he glared at her. He didn’t say anything for a long time, only cradled his broken to his stomach, unsure of what she would do if he tried to stand, and not sure if he really cared anymore.

He gave her a very faint shrug and did not bother to try and hide the hatred that intensified the blue of his eyes. “Does it really matter?” She smiled faintly and he continued. “I had to try.”

“Do you think you would have killed me?” she asked as she held the cattle prod loosely in her grip.

Edward’s eyes strayed to the deceptively casual hold she maintained, but didn’t try to take it. The thought never actually crossed his mind. Before he managed to form it as a tangible thought, the rest of his brain was saying, ‘no.’ he looked back up at her, ignoring her amused smile.

“Yes.” She laughed then, full bodied and rich, and Edward spared another glance at the prod.

“You,” she said as she poked him with the prod, “could never have killed me and gotten away with it.”

It was a short shock this time, and Edward managed to only fall forward a bit, good hand coming out to catch him, broken wrist aching as he held it to his chest. “I never said I intended to get away with it,” he ground out as he slowly pushed back to his knees.

He looked up at her, wondering what she was going to do, and suddenly deciding that he didn’t care. He pushed one leg underneath him, then the other, and then he was standing, eyes meeting hers as he towered inches above her. She didn’t flinch, didn’t acknowledge what he had done any more than narrow her eyes and purse her lips in displeasure.

Edward swayed for a moment, but then steadied, and stared at her, letting the murderous hate dance across his face and through his eyes. “I would have taken you down, killed you, and then happily have died if only to know that you were dead.”

She smirked. “And how would you have killed me?”

Edward smiled wanly. “I’d planned on breaking your neck.”

“Hmm,” was all she said, and then she swung out with the prod, using its length to catch Edward at the side of his head, across his ear, and he fell from the blow and the jolt of electricity that seemed to stab through his ear and into his brain.

The only thing that Edward could do to try and ward off the blows was to curl himself into a ball, regardless of how badly it hurt, and how afraid he was he might kill himself as he tried to protect himself. His broken wrist he kept in the most protected area, the center of his body, good arm and legs curled up to guard it further, and knowing that it was almost useless.

The way his body was reacting to the shocks was bad enough on its own, regardless of whether she merely laid the prod against him or swung it full out like she was wont to do. He was sure that a broken rib had shifted dangerously inside him after one hard blow to his back, and more sure when the blood started to trickle from his mouth as he breathed.

And he knew that he was losing blood from where the bones of his wrist had shredded through his skin. There was no way around that one either, as both bones worked their way further out as his body danced in time to Van Cleef’s will. He nearly lost consciousness as she hooked one boot into side, and when he regained any semblance of it he knew he was dying because of the blood that pooled under his head and the spasming pain inside him.

He clung to the thought of Anita, clung to the knowledge that she had said she would come for him. Clung to it like it was his last hope, because he knew it was. She wouldn’t kill him yet, not Van Cleef. But she wouldn’t care if he were already dying when she put a gun to his head and a bullet in his brain. She wouldn’t care if he was in agony as he waited.

No. She would relish it, revel in the knowledge that he knew he was going to die no matter what.

She will come, he told himself silently as he began to forget what it felt like not to hurt. She will come, he told himself as he forgot what it felt like to have individual hurts.

_She will come,_ his mind whispered frantically inside of him as he forgot what it felt like to feel at all.


	6. 6 Hours

The plane landed after dark, which pleased her to no end. She waited patiently while they taxied to the far end of the runway and then not so patiently for them to open the door and let her out. It wasn’t as if Anita didn’t understand that there were post flight procedures, but she didn’t understand why she had to be part of them. She just wanted off of the jet so that she could start heading for Colorado Springs and Cheyenne Mountain. Not either of them specifically, but near enough that she wasn’t going to split hairs.

When the doors finally opened she peered out into the night and was relieved to see there were no people present, and extended her magic to make sure there wasn’t anything not human there where she couldn’t see them. It was empty and she was alone, and she hurriedly made her way down the stairs and to the compartment at the back of the plane where her three suitcases were being carefully lowered to the ground.

Carefully, very carefully, because she had nearly shot the pilot when he’d tried to toss one in. not a good idea to jostle the explosives, even if she didn’t know for sure if he’d been trying to toss guns, ammo, or C-4 around. She didn’t really care, either.

She made sure that all three were safely on the ground at that the plane was locked up before heading for the rental Jean-Claude had arranged for her. A 4-wheel drive Range Rover, black, and with plenty of room in the back for her supplies. She opened the driver’s door and poked around under the seat until she had the keys palmed and then slid in and started it, adjusting the seat quickly and backing the SUV to the waiting bags.

This time she loaded them herself. The flight crew had strict instruction, stay where they were for eight hours, and if she hadn’t contacted them, leave and head for St. Louis. Anita wasn’t worried; there was no way to connect them to her actions before that time limit was up, and that was only if something truly bad happened.

She wasn’t going to let something truly bad happen. Not with Edward’s life in the balance.

She glanced at her watch and sighed as she pulled to onto the dark street next to the landing field. According to her directions she needed to go right, and then right again at the light. She was in Limon, about twelve miles outside of Colorado Springs, and she was anxious to get into the city and to a store. She needed duct tape for one, but she wanted to empty out their first aid supplies because she was certain that she was going to need them.

The thought chewed inside her with a painful purpose. She knew Edward was hurt. She knew he was hurt badly. There was no way to explain it, just instinct, gut feeling. Pure terror.

She pressed her foot harder and watched the needle swing higher until it was trembling right at ninety, and hoped she wouldn’t find flashing lights in her rearview. She didn’t have the time for that, she didn’t even have time to be stopping for anything, even if she really needed it. And she did, but the time might… She stopped that thought resolutely. There was no sense in dwelling on it.

He would survive or he would die. She was only going to do her best to make sure he lived, and in order to do that she needed the things that could help him. It would be a lot worse if she showed up in time to save him only to lose him to blood loss or some such because she hadn’t made the stop. It would be even worse to show up and be so close to saving him, only to take a bullet because she hadn’t tried to make the body armor fit as well as it could.

She snorted. Duct taped body armor. The latest in fashion wear when storming secret assassin training compounds. She laughed out loud at that and glanced up in the rear view. Nothing, she was safe so far.

So far.

There was still a long way to go. She knew that, she had the instructions, directions, all of it memorized. She had made sure of it during the two plane rides. She knew where to go, what to expect, and had a very good idea that Van Cleef would know she was there within the hour.

She could only hope she didn’t kill Edward out of hand.

She could only pray that Van Cleef would be overconfident and choose to allow Anita to storm it, to give her false hope, and have it ripped out from under her. Because that was one of the things Anita did best, ruin other peoples’ plans when they underestimate her.

She passed a sign, _Colorado Springs, 2 miles._ Not much further, and she saw the glow of lights as she crested a hill and sped down into the edges of the city. And she blinked, and laughed.

She swung the wheel hard to the right and pumped the breaks to slow the SUV down as she squealed down an off ramp, and then sped up towards the glow of lights. There was a Wal-Mart conveniently there, less than a block away, and waiting for her.

Her fingers itched as she glanced at her watch again. She was going to make it, she was going to get to him in plenty of time.

 

Half an hour later Anita was unloading various bags into the backseat of the Range Rover in the darkened parking lot. She had decided it would be better to go ahead and spend fifteen minutes or so emptying bags and opening boxes and scattering the contents into several plastic organizers she had purchased. It would, she reasoned, be better if she cold just open a compartment and snag the ointment, bandage, gauze, whatever as soon as she needed it, not to have to wrestle with plastic and cardboard and spend precious minutes cursing her way through the evilness of opening them.

She had the gauze rolls, sterile gauze pads, butterfly closures, paper and cloth tape, various forms of antibiotic creams and ointments, and probably thousands of band-aids in multiple sizes. She even had them in Scooby Doo and Spider-Man, but that was only because she hadn’t realized there were character boxes mixed with her plain ones until she’d already torn the boxes open and dumped the band-aids into their pile.

She had a change of clothes for Edward, too, a loose button up shirt and large sweatpants that she anticipated pulling on him over bulky bandages. Call it a hunch, but she was sure his current clothes would be dead after she finished with him. She had a new pair of scissors that were already intended to cut his clothes off of him so she could piece him back together when she found him.

And she had blankets. Soft, thick, warm blankets, in case he was in shock. That, and to keep blood off of the clean Range Rover that she did not own. Practical, yes. If he bled everywhere she’d buy the damned thing. It didn’t make a difference. But the bite to the air did, and she didn’t want him getting sick on top of what she was already expecting.

But then, she wasn’t exactly sure what to expect. He would be injured. Shot, cut up, beaten, she expected. She sighed pensively as she finally dumped the last of the boxes and threw the remains into the shopping cart. She ran a hand over her face. She just didn’t know what to expect. But it would be bad. It would be very bad.

She closed the door and dragged the last bag out of the cart and headed for the rear of the SUV, opening the rear door and letting it lift up as she grabbed two rolls of duct tape out of the bag and cursing that the only colors it had come in were blue, yellow and silver. She would have preferred black, but the silver would have to do.

She opened one of the suitcases, the one she loaded to be nearest the door, and began tugging out the body armor, glancing it over and sliding it on. The shin and thigh guards first, then strapping them on tightly with reams of the tape, winding it until she was sure it wouldn’t fall down or off, and thankful that someone had had the foresight to add clips that would attach to the vest she was tugging on over her head.

The vest had to be taped, too, around the waist and then above her breasts to keep it from sliding up and down. It was made for a man, and she sighed as she resolutely began strapping tape around her breasts, flattening her chest and making her wince as she ripped the tape off at the end. She quickly grabbed the arm guards and muttered a frustrated curse as she realized that even the smallest upper arm armor was too long for her.

She tossed the two pieces of body armor back in the case before pulling out what looked like miniature shin guards and sliding them over her forearms. They were too long, too, but she could work around the length by letting it overlap at her elbows. She taped these down, too, and then tossed the tape onto the carpeted floor. There was a packet left in the bag, and she snagged it, ripped it open, and used the hair bands to bind her hair out of her face ruthlessly.

With a quick glance around she was relieved to see that no one was watching her. In fact, the parking lot was mostly deserted, and she glanced at her watch again, and was annoyed to see her fifteen minute had tripled into forty-five. She began tugging out holsters and straps and lacing herself in with them as she picked out weapons and tucked them were she wanted them.

A Browning under her left arm, a Beretta under her right. At each side of her waist were well made Smith & Wesson .38’s, and at her back was the .10 mm Desert Eagle. She didn’t think she could use it, but she wanted it just in case. She slid two more .9 mm’s into holsters she had strapped and taped to her thighs, and then followed matching holsters at her calved with a pair of matching .22’s. Satisfied she strapped on her own wrist sheathes and slid well sharpened blades into them before slinging an odd canvas strap down her chest.

This time she closed the case and tugged another one forward, opening it and taking out already prepared clips and sliding them into each slot on the ammo band. It was heavy when she had filled it, but she was content that she had enough regular firepower now, and turned to the final case, layering a second canvas band across her body, opposite the last, and with odd hooking straps.

Into these straps she slipped, so very carefully, grenades, taking care that each pin was properly secured against the grenade and wouldn’t be accidentally pulled by body movement. Then she took at four of the long canisters of the CS gas and hooked them in towards her waist, sure that she would put them to good use.

She lifted out both of the M-16 cases and slammed the back door down, heading for her door and climbing in with some difficulty before sitting the C-4 next to her and using the seatbelt to strap it in. better safe than sorry, and she preferred safe. The Desert Eagle at her back was annoying, but she thought it wouldn’t be a problem as she started the SUV and pulled back out onto the street, heading east and toward the infamous Cheyenne Mountain.

This, she knew, was a military installment. But whether they knew it or not, less than ten miles away, underneath another mountain, was another installation run by a psychotic killer. She drove carefully, replaying the directions over and over in her head as she made her way unerringly to the base of Seven Falls, and the place where Edward was waiting for her to rescue him.


	7. 4 Hours

Edward woke to a blurry face hovering above him.

He was sprawled on the icy concrete floor like he had simply collapsed where he was without a care as to how he landed. He had, there was no denying it, and his collapse had only been into unconsciousness, because he had been on the floor in the first place. The floor, he thought, and forced his foggy mind to focus in on the unmoving face above him.

Van Cleef smiled down at him, noting that his pale blue eyes were glazed and dim, that he was fighting for consciousness and coherence. The struggle amused her, and she stroked a finger down the side of his face, letting it trail still damp blood across the pale skin.

“Your girlfriend is here, Undertaker,” she said calmly as Edward flinched back from her touch. She frowned, knowing that the move was only because she had touched a tender bruise and not because he was afraid. No, he was too angry and filed with hate to fear her.

She would have to work to correct that.

He blinked slowly at her once, and then in a hoarse voice said, “She’s not my girlfriend.”

“Fine, lover then,” Van Cleef said with an impatient wave of her hand.

Edward rolled to one side, thinking he might try to get up, and realizing that it wasn’t going to happen as the movement nearly made him pass out again. “Not my lover,” he murmured against the rising darkness. “Friend. She’s my friend.”

Van Cleef made no comment, only toed him back onto his back and smiled as he groaned and fell back without a fight. “So you say,” she returned just as quietly in a tone that made Edward’s heart speed up and his already aching head to pound even harder.

She reared back a leg and let it fly into his thigh, smiling with pleasure as he cried out and rolled with the blow, trying to minimize the damage she could do and only making it worse by aggravating his already existing injuries. “She thinks she’s going to attack the compound,” she said with a grunt as she let another kick fly into his stomach.

This time Edward only gave a choked gasp. He barely moved, only lay there, his eyes closed as he struggled for breath, iron will keeping him from writhing with the agony he felt. With the fear he felt. Van Cleef knew, she _knew_ , and Anita was walking into a trap. He opened his eyes and whimpered as a fist came flying in from the side and slammed into the side of his head.

“She’s going to be the thing that breaks you,” Van Cleef said clearly as she aimed another kick, this time into his side where his ribs were already driving him insane with agony. “I’m,” a kick, “going to,” another kick, “kill her,” a boot to the face, “while you watch,” and she jerked him to his knees by the hair.

She shook her head in disgust.

Edward’s eyes were open, but as she looked into them she knew that any more torture was useless. He was past the point of feeling the pain now, and it wasn’t half so much fun if he wouldn’t scream. His eyes were dull and blood trickled from his mouth. She snorted and dropped him, not even looking to see if there was any response from where he lay on the floor before leaving.

And there was a response.

Maybe not one that she would have noticed, maybe not one that she would have understood. Maybe not one she would even have cared about if she had done either. As the door closed behind Van Cleef, Edward curled to his side, gasping and trying not to make a sound as he felt sharper things inside him. He coughed once, twice, and a frothy red foam coated his lips.

He knew that at least one rib had pierced a lung, and he knew that the sudden weight on his chest was because of it, and not because of cracked and broken bone. No, blood was leaking into his lung, and air into his chest cavity. Suffocation from within, if he wasn’t terribly lucky.

There other pains inside, and he only hoped that none of the other broken pieces would gouge and tear anything important. He looked above him, realized the light was still on, and closed his eyes. He drew his arms to his chest, and one hand pulled into a fist, loose, but still a fist. He held to his heart and prayed.


	8. 3 Hours

The road was dark and winding and it made Anita nervous as she crept slowly up the narrow strip of sand. She didn’t like driving up the sides of mountains in the dark when she could barely see where the next turn was as a rule, and the fact that she was pretty well loaded for werebear certainly didn’t make her any happier. She could see herself driving over the side of the ridge that dropped off next to her.

There would be a massively glorious explosion from all of the stuff she had on her. No one would even be able to collect so much as a piece of charred bone. Perfect.

She pressed the gas a little more and the headlights slid silently across the trees and red rock. For a moment she thought she saw water, and then she remembered exactly where she was. Seven Falls at the edge of Colorado Springs. Seven Falls because of a coursing stream that created seven separate and distinct waterfalls. They were supposed to be beautiful.

She could only hope that what she was about to do didn’t send the entire mountain crumpling down into the ravine she skirted.

It felt like hours had passed when she finally reached the arch she was looking for. About a hundred yards further along was a tunnel. It was a short tunnel, and didn’t lead into the mountain proper. Instead it cut through a piece of it for about three hundred yards or so, and then popped back out a little higher on the mountain that she currently was. She also knew that on the other side was a steep tower of rock that was supposedly a brilliant view.

If you had the nerve to climb it.

But her destination was about halfway through that darkened tunnel. There was a piece of the rock that wasn’t actually rock, was actually plaster that had been sculpted and painted to look like the mountain itself, but that actually concealed the entrance and exit to Van Cleef’s hidey hole. As far as anyone knew it was the only way in, the only way to, but that was what she was carrying the C-4 for, wasn’t it? If it wasn’t, it wouldn’t matter, she’d still bring the whole damned thing down.

Very, very carefully, Anita managed to turn the Range Rover around. She was more grateful than before for the 4-wheel drive, and even if it had been a twenty-three point turn instead of a three point, she was still on the mountain. She backed to the tunnel about halfway between the arch and the entrance, and then stopped the SUV, put it into park and pulled the emergency break.

She glanced in the rearview mirror and the killed all the lights. In the dark she made sure that the keys were securely fastened underneath the driver’s seat, and then made sure that all the doors were unlocked. She was planning on killing everyone before they could make it out, so she wasn’t really worried about anyone stealing the Range Rover. But the keys were hidden just in case. And she wanted it unlocked in case she had to drag Edward out. No fumbling with keys for her, no, readily available medical supplies.

She climbed out of the SUV, taking the M-16’s with her,  and shut the door quietly, then studiously avoided looking at the steep drop next to her. She moved quietly around the front of the SV and then ducked low to the wall of rock on the other side, keeping close to it as she moved closer to the tunnel. Her eyes were slowly adjusting to the darkness, and she’d always had better night vision that a normal person.

So it was only increased when she let a bit of power leak through her marks with Richard and let her see nearly as well as in daylight. It also increased her sense of hearing, so she was on edge at every noise as she quickly identified each. Most were from her, the faint scuff of foot along pebbled ground, the catch of canvas or tape or cotton on a piece of outreached stone.

There was the general noise she’d expect from a mountain side, but nothing to suspect that anyone was prepared for her. Btu they would be, she knew it. Van Cleef was too good not to be ready in some way, and when the rock changed texture underneath her hand she stopped suddenly, making sure that her body was nowhere in front of it beyond that one outstretched limb.

She carefully backed up before plucking a grenade from where it was stowed against her chest and yanking the pin with a free hand. She’d refrained from walking along with a gun for this purpose: she had the element of surprise and intended to use it. There was no need to defend herself form an attack that was going to come.

She tossed the grenade and scuttled back another dozen feet and ducked as she counted to five. No sooner had she made it to the ground with her hands over her ears did the grenade explode. Rock showered down, and she could feel the suddenly warmer air that came from within the mountain itself as she realized it had worked, the tunnel hadn’t collapsed, and the doorway was opened. Permanently.

She drew the .9 mm’s from under each arm and moved toward it, both out and ready, her arms carefully extended and locked, already aiming at targets she couldn’t see. The dust cleared and she did see them, two faintly moving figures that she immediately emptied the gun in her left hand into. The Browning in her right was left for cover, in case she should have missed, but she hadn’t and there was nothing more beyond the sound of their bodies clattering to the ground.

As she moved closer she realized that they were dressed in body armor. Tailored body armor, and carrying enough weapons that she raised an eyebrow. Granted, they were nowhere near as stocked as she currently was, but they weren’t shabbily turned out, either.

She didn’t bother peaking around the edge of the opening, she only fired blindly around it until the Browning was empty, too, and then quickly dropped the empty clips and reloaded, repeating for a two more clips until she was relatively sure that they’d be expecting her to repeat the act. The third time she snuck the guns around the edge and then without warning followed it with her full body, noting that there were three bodies on the ground, and that there were a half dozen more heads peeking around walls toward the end of the hallway.

They were wearing night vision, and she laughed as she carefully fired at them, taking four out quickly before the other two ducked back down. She moved forward quickly, contemplating tossing a grenade before she finished her way down the hallway. Then she was there, and one of the men, they were definitely men, popped two rounds into her chest. She stumbled back but drew on the marks to remain on her feet as she kicked out with one foot and took him on the side of his head.

He dropped as she fired two shots at the second man’s head, and then she let another one into the downed man’s neck. Blood pooled and spread as she made a mental tally before moving forward. If she was right, there were still a good fifteen more people outside of Edward and Van Cleef, and she was relatively sure that she was. Still, she would remain on guard.

She moved down the hallway, opening doors quickly and low and identifying them as empty as she moved steadily downhill into the mountain. She’d made it three levels down, more than halfway to Edward before she heard the sound of metal on metal and the distinct odor of gunpowder assailed her were increased nose.

She smiled and Tucker the guns back under her arms, then yanked two of the for CS canisters off of her chest. She pulled the pin on one and quickly tossed it through the hastily opened door where she’d identified the men as being. She yanked the pin on the second and threw it hard in, smiling as she heard the muffled thunk and the following curse as it hit someone.

She yanked the door closed and raced past the room down the hall, and then turned around with the .38’s from her hips in her hands. Within moments the door was opened and eleven men were streaming out, coughing, gagging and hacking as they tried to clear their throats from the corrosive gas. Even that far down the hall Anita still could get the hint of it and it made her sneeze.

The noise had the assassins turning toward her and she smiled as she began to rapidly fire into the crowd. Six went down from the first try alone, and when the guns were empty she dropped them and drew the .9 mm’s at her thighs, continuing on until everything that had moved was still. They hadn’t even had a chance, she mused as she realized she was feeling the choking sensation that the CS drove a person into. She turned, dropping the now empty 9’s to the ground and making sure her remaining two were fully loaded.

She moved on.

It was quiet and empty until she made it to the lowest level, two below where she had unleashed the gas, and when she hit it she was immediately fired at. She gave a muffled shriek and dropped to the ground, sprawling, for all the world, like she was dead. She’d fallen on her face, and lay there with a hand carefully at her stomach, still holding the gun.

When the two remaining men came to her she rolled and fired placing two quick, perfectly aimed shots right between their eyes. She rolled away, but not quickly enough, and one of the men fell on top of her. She grunted with disgust as she shoved him off of her and got to her feet, tossing the remaining 9’s to the side and drawing the Desert Eagle at her back.

She moved carefully down the hallway and checked the remaining rooms very carefully until she was at the end and there was a final door directly in front of her. It had to be the room where Edward was, and she knew that Van Cleef would be there, too. Maybe more goons, there was no guarantee that she’d killed them all, but for some reason she was sure that Van Cleef would be alone.

She was sure that Van Cleef would be so positive that if Anita made it this far she’d be badly injured… She wouldn’t be ready for a hale and hearty Anita coming through low and firing the second she identified her target.

She hoped. She prayed.

Then she crouched and turned the knob, tossed the door open quickly and stayed low, trying to see what to shoot at. Her eyes quickly identified the still form on the floor as Edward, and she realized that her eyes were improving because she could see clearly even in the darkness. Another mistake of Van Cleef’s, not counting on Anita’s ties to the monsters.

Anita threw the marks open to their widest and pulled, taking as much power as she could without damaging Richard or Jean-Claude, and she felt the sudden blood lust from both of them rise inside her. It was simple, really, so simple as she saw were a smug Van Cleef lounged against a wall less than five feet away from her.

And she saw clearly the look of shock and surprise and pain as the first shot took Van Cleef in the stomach. Blood swelled and soaked through the woman’s clothes, and she collapsed to her knees.

Anita fired again, and again, sending the entire clip of the Desert Eagle into the woman’s torso until she could see a visible patch of blood against the floor from where the body lay. She fired one last shot into the head and was satisfied, personally and metaphysically when it imploded under a gout of blood and thicker things.


	9. 2 Hours

Anita blinked as she realized it was done, and then turned back to the other still form on the floor. Her heart gave a sudden lurch and she peered frantically around, looking for and finding a light switch. She hit it, wincing and closing her eyes against the suddenly glare of fluorescent lights, and then blinking them open until she could see.

It was Edward, and he was in bad shape.

She sized it up and realized that her meager medical supplies might not even ensure he lived as long as the drive to the hospital. Anita dropped the Desert Eagle next to his head as she kneeled and placed a hand on his cheek, then slid careful fingers to his neck, trying to feel for a pulse under all the slick blood.

It was there, thready and weak, but it was there, and she was rewarded by a faint fluttering of his eyes. They opened a little, and then a little more until he was gazing at her half lidded.

“Knew… it had… to be you,” he said in a painful and broken sounding whisper. Blood flecked his lips, and she bit her lip trying not to cry. “You’re… the first one… to be… gentle.”

“I had to save you, didn’t I?” she asked, reminded of another day, another rescue mission, and she blinked at the sudden tears. “You stay right here, Edward, I’m going to get something to get you out of here.”

She thought she heard him laugh, and he wheezed and groaned, rolling to his side. She gasped as she saw his mangled wrist, and the way his body was bruised and bleeding through his ripped shirt. So many bruises, and she knew that there was something terribly wrong inside him. There were bulges in his side that she could see where his shirt gaped, and some of them looked decidedly pointy.

“Not like… I can go… anywhere,” he muttered, and she brushed a hand against his forehead. Edward closed his eyes at her touch and sighed.

“I’ll be right back,” she whispered, and got to her feet a little unsteadily. She paced her way down the hall looking for something, anything, she could get him up five levels of steep halls on. As she moved she dropped charges of C-4 behind her, not bothering with the detonators, only running wire between each as she moved through each room. She’s made almost to the first level before she fond what she was looking for, and almost normal office type room with a fancy executive chair.

With wheels.

She dropped the rest of the C-4 and the wire before grabbing the chair and racing back down the halls. Twice she skidded out of control into walls where the curves and turns were too sharp for her spend, but she didn’t care as she kept going.

He was still lying there, still as death, and more painful looking than when she’d left. His blood had polled and was rushing out to meet the quickly cooling mass from Van Cleef’s body, and she winced as she rolled him to his back, more in sympathy as she realized he was trying not o make any sounds.

He didn’t win that battle, and he cried out as she got him on his back. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly and quietly. “I’m sorry, but I have to.”

“I know,” was all he gasped, and when she moved to wrap her arms under his torso he grabbed her with his good arm, trying to help her as she struggled to lift him.

She drew more heavily on the marks and by the time she got him in the chair tears were streaming down his cheeks and his already pitiful breathing sounding even worse as it rattled in his chest. She raised his shirt and looked over his body, ignoring the shapes the bruises were in and running her hands across some of the things that had her worried. Two were hard, and she was sure that they were broken ribs, detached from the main body of his ribcage and migrated south towards his stomach and groin from repeated blows.

The others… They were soft, and she had a terrifying mental image of blood pooling inside him. Internal bleeding, there was no other explanation, and she lowered the shirt before looking up into his pale blue eyes were they watched her just as soberly.

“I’m dying… Anita,” he whispered. “You… should go… Leave me.”

She shook her head. “I came here to get you. I’m not leaving without you.”

With that she stood and turned the chair so that it was facing the doorway, and then she got her hands onto the back in good tight grips and began pushing him fro all she was worth. She knew it hurt him, she could tell in the way he tried to bite back the groans and pained sounds, but his feet were dragging and she knew that it was hurting him.

“I’m sorry,” she said as she made it past the CS filled room. She had closed that door on her way back. “If I turned you around you’d probably fall out, and think how much worse that would hurt.”

She heard him give a faint grunt and knew he didn’t blame her. She moved faster as she got him out to the first level and the rock-strewn entryway. She quickly moved along moving the larger rocks and then dragged the chair all the way out into the darkened tunnel.

“Stay here,” she said quietly. “I have one last thing to do.”

She didn’t expect an answer, not even sarcasm, and headed back in without waiting for one. She found the room she’d left the C-4 in and grabbed it and the wire, dropping charges as she made her way back Edward. The wire was running still, and as she hit the entryway she began pressing charges along the walls every few feet and pressing wire into them, determined that if anyone found this place they wouldn’t get in without major equipment. With any luck, they’d never get in, and thinking of that she stripped off the bloodstained body armor, slicing the tape with her knives and tossing it back inside before jogging the wire to the Range Rover.

She headed back into the tunnel and grabbed the back of the chair and dragged it, tugging and huffing over the sandy rocky ground until she had Edward to the SUV and was trying to convince him that it wouldn’t hurt to be lifted inside.

The look in his eyes was all the sarcasm she needed and she shook her head, giving up for the moment and grabbing her medical supplies out. “There’s not much I can do,” she said quietly as she ct his shirt off, realizing that there was no way she could get the new shirt on him. “But I’m going to try a little, okay?”

He didn’t rely, and she ran the scissors up his jeans, avoiding cutting his boxers, but making sure that the denim was off of him before grabbing gauze pads and small bottles of water and blotting at the blood that covered him. “No peroxide or alcohol,” she said as she worked. “You’re in enough pain as it is.”

She thought she felt a faint tremor through him, maybe him trying to keep from laughing, and she worked her way up his body, layering gauze and band aids where she could, and wrapping the gauze rolls where she couldn’t. He was almost whimpering by the time she got to his waist, and she shook her head. “I can’t do anything about his,” and she quietly.

She didn’t even touch him there, afraid she’d damage him more than he had already been. Instead she used butterfly closures along his jaw, gauze at his forehead and ear, and then loosely wrapped more gauze and sterile pads about his broken wrist.

“I can’t reset this, I’m afraid I’d only make it worse,” she said as she did so, and then looked up.

His eyes were closed and his breathing was shallow. He had passed out, whether from pain or blood loss she didn’t care, and her heart beat painfully hard in her chest. She tossed the rest of the supplies out of the way and lifted him quickly into the SUV, trying to lay him down gently and then carefully stuffing his legs up onto the seat before closing the door behind him.

There was no hope here, she realized as she unwound more wire and raced to the driver’s door. She got in and started the Range Rover, turning the lights on and losing the parking brake before attaching a detonator to the wire in her hand. She buckled herself in and pressed the break, putting the vehicle in gear and leaning far out the door as she pressed the detonator down.

There was a faint hiss and she slammed the door and lifted her foot off the brake, letting the Rover cruise down the slope, picking up speed and only laying her foot on the brake as she neared sharp curves. Behind her she heard muffled whumps as the charges she had left blew, and she felt a massive tremor as she drove.

She ignored it and pressed forward, hoping that the mountain underneath them wasn’t going to break away and slide down. It didn’t and she was nearly in tears as she made it to the bottom of the trail and proper roads. Well, as proper as they got, she realized as she moved marginally faster on paved winding turns.

When they reached the hospital she roared up into the ambulance bay, and she jumped out shrieking for help as she yanked the back door open. “Edward,” she said, laying a hand on his cold shoulder. “Edward, we’re here, they’re going to help you.”

It was then that she realized how still he was, and that his lips were blue.


	10. 0 Hours

When his eyes opened again he was, happily, heavily medicated and floating along on a cloud of morphine. He shifted a little and then realized that he wasn’t really moving. There was no fear, only the sudden realization that he was bandaged, strapped and drugged down. No handcuffs he realized with a twitch of eyes to his wrists, but the padded wrist straps they used on patients who were unable to restrain themselves.

Another glance around the room confirmed hospital, and he saw a sleeping Anita on the bed next to him. She was cleaner than the last time he’d seen her, and she was much more pale. There were circles under her eyes and he noticed the pitcher and empty glass on the table next to her, and the bottle of sleeping pills.

He wondered how long he’d been out of it.

A good deal of time, he thought, at least days, because she looked like she hadn’t slept in at least that long. That, and the Anita he knew and trusted and loved would never resort to drugs, even as medication, unless it were very important. He shifted again and felt a little spark of pain behind his eyes, making a faint surprised sound that had his mouth curving into an ‘o’ and his eyes fluttering closed as he willed it away.

When he opened them he saw Anita shift, sit up and blink her eyes blearily, and then a smile spread across her face as she realized that it had been an awake version of Edward that woke her. He couldn’t help it, he smiled back, wondering if she knew just how beautiful she was when she smiled like that, how unselfconscious she was around him, and how shackled she was with the people in her life.

“You’re awake,” she said, her voice still muzzy.

“I’m alive,” he replied, raising an eyebrow at the hoarseness in his voice. “How long?”

She glanced down. Then back up, meeting his eyes hesitantly. “Which time?” When he didn’t reply she sighed. “They put you in a drug induced coma after the first time you woke up. You were pretty crazy, kept trying to leave.” She passed, reaching out with a hand and laying over his. “That was almost two weeks ago.”

He closed his eyes. Thought for a moment, and realized that he was lucky to be alive. “What happened?”

“Cliff notes or Charles Dickens?” she asked and he cracked a smile. “I’ll assume you want the long version then. Van Cleef’s place wasn’t found. They assumed that the side of the mountain caved in because of limestone caverns inside. So there’s no fear of that, neither of us is in any trouble of being caught out.”

“And what exactly do you have to worry about?”

Her eyes flickered and then her face shut down into a blank mask. He smiled, pleased and impressed that she had finally learned to do it, no matter that she had hesitated at first. That was only because it was him.

“I’ll let you figure that out, _Captain Jackson_ ,” she said with a faint smile. He shifted his head a little, a mock shrug since he wasn’t going to try and move his entire body again anytime soon.

“I knew you’d find out the moment I gave you the combination,” he said easily. “So now you know all of my secrets. Going to turn me in?”

The surprise that slid across her face was almost as funny as the stammered no.

“I’d never do that, Edward. You’re my friend,” she said sincerely, smiling and squeezing his hand gently. “You really are, even if you don’t think so. But I did completely rob you blind.”

He laughed. “Let me guess. Weapons and ammo.”

“And grenades, C-4, and CS. I thought about bringing a rocket launcher or two, but they just didn’t go with my pants,” she said laughing.

He laughed too, wincing briefly as he realized that morphine did not heal all wonders, and then Anita leaned across him and fiddled with one of the machines. He closed his eyes and breathed in, letting the scent of her clean skin and hair wash over him, and then he suddenly felt very dizzy again.

 

When he opened them Anita was sitting on a chair next to the bed, flipping through a magazine. “Welcome back,” she said easily.

“Back?” he asked, and she nodded, standing p and handing him the controller for the bed.

“They said you can inch it up as long as it doesn’t hurt. And I pressed your little morphine button. It doses you every fifteen minutes. You fell asleep when you stopped hurting.”

“Oh,” was all he said as he said as he pressed a button and let himself be raised into a semi-sitting position. He felt better than he had before, and he wondered how long exactly he’d slept this time.

She’d read his face, he realized as she answered the question. “You woke up this afternoon. About four hours ago. Thirsty?”

He nodded and she handed him a plastic cup of water with a straw. He lifted his hand to take and realized he was no longer restrained, then realized that his arm was in a cast from the elbow down. He raised an eyebrow, nonplussed, and took the cup with his left hand.

“Feel better?” she asked as he finished the water in three long swallows.

“Yes,” was all he said, then glanced down at the rest of his body. For some reason he felt lucky that he couldn’t actually see what was under the sheet.

“Your wrist was the only thing broken that required casting. They had to wire three of your ribs back to your rib cage, and as it is one wasn’t even attempted,” she said with a sober face.

“What else?”

“Are you really ready to hear this?” she asked. He nodded and she told him. “Stitches everywhere, but you knew that, I think. The wrist, the ribs. They had to do a lot of cleaning up inside you, you were bleeding out into your abdomen from a couple of places. You’re missing a kidney and a piece of your liver. They stitched up your lung and drained the blood from inside it, dosed you up with several bags, and called it a day, praying you’d live.”

“What are you leaving out?” he asked as he watched her face carefully.

She sighed. “You were dead when we got here.”

“And I’m alive now?”

“I kept your soul from leaving. When they resuscitated your body I forced it back into you.”

“You can do that?” he asked trying to control his surprise and the sudden spike of fear. She nodded. “Does that make me a zombie?”

She shook her head. “You’re alive. You’d be a vegetable if I hadn’t done anything. All I did was put what makes you you back where it belongs.”

“What else?”

She looked down. “There was a lot of… electrical damage.”

“She was trying to electrocute me,” he said softly. “Just without killing me. Why is that so bad?”

She groaned. “It might not be so bad, but it’s not something I needed to know. Not all of it at least. I know it damaged your heart a little. They said that could be reversed in time as it healed.”

“Anita,” was all he said.

“Edward,” she said back. “They thought I was your girlfriend, your wife. Your something.” She closed her eyes and he was amused by the way her skin was turning red from her neck up. “You’re never going to be a father. There, happy? I told you.”

“Oh,” he said, surprised. “Well, it’s not like I’d ever planned on it.”

They were both silent for a long moment as he realized exactly how that would have been caused by the cattle prod. “Oh, ow,” he said with a grimace. “For once, I’m glad that I don’t remember everything.”

“Yeah,” Anita said. “You should be.”

“Thanks,” he said quickly, softly, eyes staring at her.

She smiled at him. “No thanks necessary. You’d’ve done the same for me.”

He smiled. “I’d do anything for you, Anita.”

She smiled, and for once he realized that she might actually understand. “I know,” she said quietly, and placed her hand in his. “I think I’d do the same.”

Edward thought for a moment, and let his fingers slip into hers. “How’d you do it? How’d you get them to agree to help me?” he passed, then, “Do they love you that much?”

His eyes flickered at her laugh, loud and full bodied. “Oh, no, Edward. No, they don’t love me that much.”

“Then how’d you do it?” he pressed.

“Fear,” she said with a smile, “is a very powerful motivator.”


End file.
